Forever
by fmapreshwab
Summary: Steve Rogers grapples with the changes in his life, and realizes that more than the times have changed. Immediately following the events of the film, Steve tries to accept what he has done and find a way to become part of the world. Rated for language, potential Steve/Tony slash in later chapters. Steve's PoV.
1. Yesterday's Whipping Boy

A/N: This little fic came about from the scene in Avengers wherein (*spoiler alert*) Tony pretty much dies. There was something about that sequence that didn't sit right with me, so I wanted to explore it. It's also something of an experiment on my part, and I'm fiddling with a new writing style. As such, I'd appreciate any feedback you'd like to give, positive or negative. If I missed the mark, tell me; if it sucks, let me know. If it actually turns out half good, you know I want to know that. It only takes a couple of minutes, and it means the world to me.

That said, Avengers is completely the property of the Marvel people, and probably mostly Stan Lee. I didn't invent them, I'm not making any money, and it would be great if nobody sued.

* * *

This place was supposed to be my sanctuary. It's not that hard to figure, looking around. The gym has been reproduced (painstakingly, I'm sure) from my time, complete with a fine layer of dust, faded old-style wallpaper, and a set of blood stains on the boxing ring's canvas floor.

If I close my eyes a moment, standing in the sunlight that filters vaguely through the frosted windows, I can imagine opening them to the sight of a full gym, tough guys grunting and shouting as they push one another a little farther with each hit, a little closer to submission. I can see min in shorts that are a little ridiculously high by today's standards, flitting around near the ring, loosening up for the next match, for their go in the ring.

It's a lie of course, down to the frosted windows. They're there to blur reality, to keep me from seeing the high skyline and busy streets just outside. To this day, I haven't figured out how they keep the sounds of the traffic out, but I guess that's not so surprising, when you consider it.

This was supposed to be my sanctuary, my own little island floating in the past, but all it has become is my own private hell. I look around, and I am positive that Fury had a hand in crafting this place, in choosing the little details that create the grand lie, and I am reminded only of what I have lost.

It isn't the time that cuts me. It took a few months, but I've come to terms with where—when—I am, I've even come to call a few people in this strange new world my friends. What kills me, every single time I set foot in this place, is the reminder of who I was, who I'm supposed to be.

I grit my teeth as I lay into a new bag, freshly replace as the old sits in the corner, spilling out a cascade of the tightly-packed stuffing that makes these things worth a punch. _Some things just don't change_, I think to myself, but even that might not be true.

I'm thinking about Bucky again, like I usually do when I come here, thinking about watching my friend, my best friend, falling, falling into snow and rock and cold and…_death_, I make myself think, wallowing in the finality, the leaden heaviness of the word in my mind. But I'm also thinking about the last time I was in a gym like this before…before I was in this gym.

It was a couple of years before I was finally able to join up, and I'd come in with Bucky to get a few rounds in. I was the smallest guy there, but I had gotten used to that feeling long ago. They hadn't had any gloves that didn't dwarf my arms and swallow my wrists, but I was determined to make due, taping the edges of the gloves around my forearms. The head gear was a different story, and I could barely see from the low-hanging forehead guard, but I was determined. We had come to the gym with a purpose.

My friend was desperate to teach me to defend myself if I was going to insist on getting into fights. Which I did, recklessly and repeatedly. I had hated the idea at first, because Bucky would never be able to hit me, really hit me. Or so I had thought.

When the bell rang, my old friend was all business, trying to talk me through some defensive maneuvers as the blows rained down on me. Again and again, he would hit the side of my head, the arms I had raised to shield my head, or the midsection I had left exposed. Never once did I duck out of the way, as he kept instructing me to do. All the while, Bucky called out over and over, "I won't be here to protect you forever. I won't be around forever, Steve."

And now, I see him again, falling, falling, but it isn't Bucky this time. No, this time it's a smug little bastard who wraps himself in a tin can and calls himself a hero. And the worst part is that he's right. He's one of the greatest men this world, this time, has to boast about, and he's falling out of the sky at what I would call an alarming rate. Even when he stops, plucked from the sky by the kind of monster I wouldn't have been able to fathom a month ago, he lays on the ground, neither moving nor breathing. And there I am, sitting on my heels and giving up on him.

The punching bag sails across the room, a gaping hole spilling its contents even as it flies. I look down at my hand and see a chunk of canvas still clutched within. I look down at myself and realize that punching bags won't be enough. This is why I come here, I know. I can accept that this time, this world, is different than anything I've ever known. What I can't seem to take is how I've changed, what I've lost, what this world has taken from me.

When I was young, and small, and weak, I never once backed down from a fight, never gave up, didn't even know how. But now, here, in this wide world full of things I never expected, never imagined, I'm the biggest surprise of all.

_Same old Steve_, says a voice in my head as I stare across the room at the latest casualty of my war against myself, _picking fights with the big boys. Getting into scraps he can't handle and letting the real tough guys take the beating._

Sometimes, more and more these days, I miss the little Brooklyn kid who didn't know how to shut his mouth, who got himself sent to the hospital over a girl he didn't know, who always needed rescuing but never seemed to know it. He was a better, stronger man than what I have become.

I cross the room, stepping over one of the felled punching bags as I make my way to the window. With one solid hit, I pop the pane from its frame and the world, the real world, takes over the small space, filling it with unfiltered light, and sound, and smells, and I know that this lie has been the biggest surrender of all.

This is where I am now, this is where I live. I can't go back, no matter how much I might want to, and I can't hide here, living in the past, trying to protect myself from reality with nostalgia and drowning in my own regrets. This new New York won't let me hide here forever.

The world needs a symbol, needs a hero it can look to in the darkest hours, and that hero is me, whether I want that burden or not. This is my life now, this is my home. _Every day is a new test_, I tell myself, desperate to believe, _and as long as you keep moving forward, as long as you don't give up, you'll be okay_.

"I won't be here forever," Bucky's voice echoes in my head, and for once I smile. "I will," I whisper aloud. Forever.

I think about that word for a minute, about what it implies. Forever always means a long road, with plenty of room for mistakes, but at least I think I know the first step.

I look around the gym, turning a slow circle, and think about what this place means. Then I grab my bag and turn for the door. I hope I never have to come back here again.

* * *

So, once again, I'm messing around with a new writing style to prep for another project, and feedback would be great. I'll put up the next chapter within the week, I think.


	2. Technology's Punch Line

A/N: Hey, guys, me again. I can't tell you how pleased I was by the reaction to the previous chapter. It pushed me to keep it going and get the second chapter up as soon as possible.

That said, Avengers is completely the property of the Marvel people, and probably mostly Stan Lee. I didn't invent them, I'm not making any money, and it would be great if nobody sued. I also had nothing to do with Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter. Don't give me that look; it'll all make sense soon.

* * *

I firmly believe that this world—_the world_, I remind myself, _the only world_—will never cease to amaze me. As I turn down another busy New York street, the bike roaring beneath me, my eye catches on a movie poster. The movie it advertises is clearly a historical documentary about one of our nation's greatest presidents, but I am flustered and confounded to read the word vampire scrawled beneath Lincoln's silhouette.

I shake my head in bewilderment as I purposefully gun the engine, speeding away. One thing that hasn't changed about New York is the traffic. Heading further and further into the heart of the city, I can feel the presence of hundreds, maybe even thousands of fellow New Yorkers pressing in all around me, and, in a brief moment of clarity, I feel at home. It isn't the first time I've felt this, and for a moment, it's like flying.

I weave between the traffic, exercising one of my favorite freedoms, and breeze by the frustrated motorists, yelling cabbies and dazed pedestrians. I don't exactly know where I'm going, but I have a guiding light, and really, how hard can it be? The tower looms before me, and I know that I've got the right direction. The only remaining letter, the gleaming A, glows even in the morning light, and I grin.

As I pull up to Stark Tower, dodging the debris which still remains in the street, it occurs to me that I have no idea how to get into this building. It's large and intimidating, despite its many broken windows. I could easily vault up to one of the empty window frames, but, with the heat of battle long cooled, I think it might just qualify as breaking and entering, and crime is never the answer. I could knock, but even I'm not optimistic enough to think that that would work.

The engine is rumbling gently beneath me as I sit on the sidewalk, finally realizing that there doesn't seem to be a parking structure nearby, when something in the bag strapped to the rear of my bike begins to sing, some sad song about the difficulties of being green. I'm only caught off-guard for a moment before I remember Stark's lecture about modern technology and how crucial it is that I be reachable at all times. He gave me a phone, I remember, and he must have set it up for me. I shut off the engine of my bike before I begin the search for the source of the song, which now blares louder with no rumbling to cut through.

Reaching into my bag, I pull out a small black rectangular box. If I hadn't been there when Tony had handed the thing off to me, I wouldn't believe that the small, thin object in my hand could be making so much noise, but he had been very specific. _Green button_, I think, searching the hash marked surface of the phone. Aside from the rough surface and the small silver circle set into it, there is nothing particularly remarkable about the box in my hand, and definitely no green button. As my hand grazes the smooth face on the other side, a voice begins to speak.

"Hello? Steve, are you there?"

The voice is loud and tinny, and definitely seems to be coming from my hand, but the screen is still dark. Suddenly I realize the problem. Turning the box around, I am finally confronted with a smooth screen displaying a picture of Bruce Banner. The picture, it seems, was taken without warning, as Bruce's eyes are half shut, and his mouth is open. Grinning, I pull the phone to my ear. "Dr. Banner, how are you?"

I can hear the doctor sigh on the other end of the call. "I thought we'd lost the call for a minute."

I shrug, then chastise myself, realizing that he can't see me. "Just…getting used to my new phone," I tell him, trying to sound offhand and unconcerned. There is no reason anyone should have to know how long it took me to answer a simple phone call.

"Yeah, Tony mentioned he got you set up with a phone. I was really hoping you had it with you when I saw you pull up." I spin around on pure reflex, scanning the broken buildings around me for Bruce's somewhat familiar face. "Turn back around, and look about 90 stories up," Bruce's voice sounds in my ear, amused.

I turn as instructed, squinting up into the glare of the morning sun against the remaining glass of the tower's windows. I can't see Bruce anywhere, which I suppose doesn't really surprise me. "Does everybody have eyes like yours these days, doc?"

Bruce laughs breathily for a moment before answering. I grin, glad to hear the sound for once. Bruce is a serious type of guy, which I appreciate, especially from a man with his condition. It's nice to see someone around here take something seriously every once in a while. "Security cameras," Bruce finally says. "I—I saw a motorcycle coming up the street and I…I thought it might be you. I checked the security feed, and, sure enough…."

"Here I am," I say, grinning at the front of the building and hoping it's in the direction of one of the cameras I can't seem to find. They were all too obvious on Fury's helicarrier, but Tony seems to be on the cutting edge of all things electronic, as far as I can tell.

Bruce is quiet for a moment. "I'm glad to see you," he finally says, with a hint of…relief? Apprehension? Whatever it is, it's hesitant, as if he's afraid of upsetting me. Apparently irony knows no time period. I wait for a moment, wanting Bruce to finish his thought. "No one's heard from you since…well, since you guys saved the world."

"We saved the world, doctor," I correct him, maybe just a little too forcefully.

Banner ignores me, moving the conversation forward. "Barton's called here a few times, asking about you. Romanov, too. I think…. Anyway."

I almost don't ask the question, but I know I'll regret it if I don't. "Think what, doctor?" I can hear my voice gaining an edge, but I can't seem to shake it.

Banner hesitates again, and it's beginning to wear on me. "I think they're worried about you."

_Worried about me. Great._ Pity is the last thing I need right now. "So, uh…is there a place I can park, or…."

Banner seems to snap out of the awkward moment with almost the same force as I do. "There's an underground parking structure. The entrance is about a hundred feet left of the south edge of the building. From there, you should be able to take the elevator up…."

Banner stops speaking abruptly, _hmm_ing on the other end of the line, and I already know what he's about to say. "Yes, doctor, they had elevators in the 40s. I'll be fine."

Bruce chuckles again. "I really am sorry, Steve. I know what it's like to have people walking on eggshells around you, and I don't mean to do it. I just…."

"It's fine," I tell him, but even I'm not convinced.

"Ninety-first floor," Bruce says, still sounding apologetic. "I'll go and find Tony. He's been working on something for about three days now; he's probably ready for a break."

I think he must be joking, but Banner doesn't laugh. "I'll…I'll be up there in a few minutes," I tell him, pulling the phone away from my ear to try and figure out how to end the call.

But Banner's small voice coming from the phone in my outstretched hand stops me. "Steve, wait."

I pull the phone close once again, feeling the warm screen against my cheek. "Yes, Doctor?"

"The main elevator will only go up to 80. You have to get out at 73 to access Tony's private elevator. The code to call it is 281970. But don't tell Tony I told you. I'm pretty sure that's supposed to be a secret."

I grin, rolling my eyes for the effect of a camera I may or not even be facing.

* * *

Yeah, it's going somewhere, but I just had to take this particular detour. Stay tuned for next time: Tony's first appearance, and the big confrontation that pushed me to write this in the first place.

Thanks go to my reviewers, who convinced me that the original chapter was worth following up on. MirrorFlower and DarkWind, Wildfire2, and, as always, my dear Elske, from the bottom of my heart, guys, thank you for the encouragement and the feedback.


	3. Hindsight's Familiar Regret

A/N: Hi, I'm back. I really loved writing this chapter, and I really hope you enjoy reading it even half as much. To keep the chapters about even, though, I did have to cut it up. On the bright side, more to look forward to.

That said, Avengers is completely the property of the Marvel people, and probably mostly Stan Lee. I didn't invent them, I'm not making any money, and it would be great if nobody sued.

* * *

I'm running through a list of excuses as the private elevator rises, ticking off the floor numbers. _I got caught in traffic. I wanted to explore the parking structure a little more before I came up. The door to the building was locked. Um…._ Lying has never been my strong suit, but I just can't see myself admitting how long it took to find the private elevator. _When Tony says private, he means private._

All the thoughts of the embarrassment to come evaporate as the doors open, revealing a familiar space. The repairs must have started up here, because almost all the damage is nothing but a memory of my last visit. Really, the only visible sign that anything at had happened to this room during the invasion are the dents I can see in the floor across the room, near the entrance to the balcony, and I think that a case could be made for calling them man-shaped. Or god-shaped, as everyone seems to prefer. The whole thing seems very…Tony.

I grin as I exit the elevator, looking around for the two men I had expected would be waiting, but the room is empty. Directionless, I wander over to the bar, but I know better than to pour myself a drink. When I was younger, I tolerated the taste for the feeling the alcohol gave me, but now, with my super body immune to the effect, there's no real point to it.

As I round the bar, though, I see the large couch across the room, a new addition for sure. I stroll over and practically collapse into the leather of the overstuffed couch. I squirm for more than a moment, trying to find a way not to sink nearly a foot into the unsupported fluff of the cushion, but in the end I accept the inevitability of it. Just as I'm beginning to get comfortable, leaning my head back onto the supporting frame of the couch and letting my eyes drift closed just a little, I hear the steps behind me, descending the spiral staircase set in the middle of the wide room.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite senior citizen." I can hear the grin in Tony's voice as he skips what must have been at least four steps to land on the floor with a thud I can almost feel through the couch.

I'm on my feet and facing him in less than a second, and for a moment I feel like a teenager caught in Dad's study. The effect is shattered when his eyes lock with mine, and he's wearing _that_ grin. From what I've seen, this is the closest thing he has to a bewildered look, this grin. It's the same look he gave me when he came to on street level, surrounded by his team after he expected to die. And all I can think is how I've let him down.

Bruce comes down the stairs behind us, but I'm only barely aware of it as he begins to speak. Tony is still staring at me, and I can't break his gaze. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Captain—."

"Steve," I correct him mildly without turning to face him.

"Right, Steve. It just took me longer than I expected to get Tony to…." Bruce's voice trails away as he steps closer, taking a position between Tony and me, without intercepting our staring contest. On the outside of my vision, I watch Bruce's eyes flit nervously between us. He seems worried, but he's sporting a strange smirk. "You guys probably have…a lot to talk about. I have, uh…I'm going to go…work…something," Bruce stammers, then dips out of the room more gracefully than I would have thought possible, scampering down a staircase I hadn't noticed set into the back corner, behind the bar. A part of me thinks that he must be as heavy as the Hulk, that he has to be hiding all that bulk somewhere on his short frame. Most of me realized that this is a foolish notion around the time that Tony walked me through the "talk loud and slow" version of the science behind the doctor's transformation.

After a long silence, when we've both been assured by the slamming of a door that Bruce is really and truly out of earshot, Tony finally shifts, moving his weight from one foot to the other. "I'm going to be drinking," he informs me dutifully. "You want anything?"

I smile politely, still a product of the 40s after all. "No, thank you."

Tony chuckles slightly under his breath, moving behind the bar and grabbing various containers of thin, lightly colored liquid. "You don't have to stand on my account, Cap. Have a seat."

I nod awkwardly, even though I'm entirely aware that his back has turned and he can't see me. I drop back on to the couch, shifting uncomfortably as I try to find the position I had settled into only a moment ago. Tony arrives only a moment after I've found an area of relative comfort. Watching him ease gracefully onto the couch, I wonder at the effortlessness with which he seems to live his whole life.

"So, Cap," Tony says, pausing for a drink. "Nobody sees you for days, you don't call, you don't write…." He puts a hand to his chest, feigning affront. "I'm almost hurt. Now you're showing up out of the blue. What's on your mind, soldier?"

"You," I answer honestly, and the look in his eye has me remembering the almost nonexistent space between us. The large sofa seems almost tiny, and Tony's done nothing to distance himself from me. For a moment, the man's dark eyes reflect an amusement, which transitions gradually into something I can't quite read. Then I remember that I'm still supposed to be talking. "I…I mean, what you did. When we were…when you…." I shake my head, trying to recall the speech I had worked up on my way over.

But Tony's grinning again, all arrogance and machismo, and it's all I can do to keep the red from my face, not that I'm at all certain I've succeeded. "I saved the day, no big deal." He says it with a forced nonchalance, but he's eyeing me in a way that says it is a very big deal, and I had damned well better acknowledge the fact.

I try to turn away from him, a little ashamed of myself, but my actions reflect a different frame of mind. I turn my body toward him, resting one hip against the back of the couch and pulling my leg up to rest my ankle across my knee. After a moment's readjustment, Tony's drink sits abandoned on the table before us, and his body language mirrors mine. We're facing each other now, and the situation has become that much more intense. "I keep playing it over and over, trying to find a way out, trying to solve the problem in a way that doesn't have you tempting fate and barely coming out on top." I want so desperately for him to understand, to know what I've been fighting with all this time.

"Cap," he starts, his eyes softening slightly, and he's the one person I'll let get away with calling me that outside of SHIELD property. "I'm a big time hero, and a big boy all on my own. I make my own calls, and I go where the danger is, all that loose cannon crap. You can't blame yourself for my dumbass calls. Plus, we were playing with a pretty limited hand, and it all worked out."

Tony's trying to make me feel better, and I can't take the condescension of it. "It was a stupid risk, and I shouldn't have let it happen."

Tony shakes his head, laughing lightly, and I just can't stand it when he won't take things seriously. "It's not up to you to let thing happen, Cap. It was something that needed to be done, that I had to do. That I wanted to do."

"I could have stopped you," I insist. "I should've—should've—."

"Let Manhattan burn to save me?" Tony asks, and the amused undercurrent in his voice is a lie; I can see it in his eyes. His eyes, I have come to realize, are the only truth about the man much of the time if you know how to look, and right now, in them I see concern, and an awful pity, and…could that be…something soft and warm, and I don't know what to do when he looks at me like that.

"Yes," I answer without hesitation, and the intensity of my own voice startles me. It's a struggle to hold his gaze through my embarrassment, but something about those eyes keeps me from looking away, looking down at my feet as the blush creeps across my cheeks. I start again, softly, saying, "I can't lose another—," and I pause, remembering what a mistake it would be to call Tony a soldier. It doesn't matter, not really; whatever Tony is, whatever he has the potential to become, 'soldier' is a label he will never have. "I can't lose another friend," I tell him finally.

* * *

Aww…hate to break it off here, but more to come soon, promise.

MirrorFlower and DarkWind, Wildfire2, BADAZZtoldya, Assassin of Oblivion, Evilchick2010, and my dear Elske, thanks for backing me and giving me the only thing that keeps me at it: feedback. Yes, I'll admit it. Hello, my name is fmapreshwab, and I am a praise addict. So you all back here next time.


	4. Memory's Sweet Consolation

A/N: Hello, I've returned with the hopefully well anticipated continuation. I've been getting a lot of great feedback from this story (which was originally just a throw away testing ground for a new style I'm toying with), and I know a lot of you out there are following this story, and let me say that I'm grateful to be part of a community where I can have this kind of response. Thanks, guys, really.

That said, Avengers is completely the property of the Marvel people, and probably mostly Stan Lee. I didn't invent them, I'm not making any money, and it would be great if nobody sued.

* * *

"I can't lose another friend," I tell him finally, and I'm worried that Tony will see this as weakness, a grand display of sentiment that men of my day weren't supposed to be capable of.

I never know what to expect of the world I've found myself in, and I never know what to expect of Tony. Every time, though, he surprises me. "You're talking about James," he answers instantly.

"Who?"

And, for once, confusion clouds his dark eyes. "James Barnes, your best…friend. My father used to tell me all about you two. He said you had iron in your spines, like all great men." Tony's talking in that way he has when he's genuinely interested in something, and all his words seem to crash together.

"You mean Bucky," I correct him, finally realizing who he's been talking about.

Tony's grin creeps back into place. "There's a story there," he says wolfishly, and his eyes have taken on a sharp, predatory aspect, as though he's hungry for my secrets.

"James Buchanan Barnes," I start grandly. "Knew him since grade school. He always hated the name James, and there was already a Jimmy in our class. Once he settled on Bucky, it just sort of stuck."

"Why not Barnie?" Tony asks, and I'd think he was somehow mocking me if his eyes didn't reflect a genuine curiosity.

"Times can't have changed that much, Tony," I tell him lightly. "That name has always been terrible." Tony smirks, and I decide to push the advantage. "What do you know about Bucky?" I ask seriously, wondering how much of the man I knew has been preserved.

"Well, the stories we teach the school kids has him sounding more like your sidekick than anything," Tony tells me, grinning. "But I know better."

"You usually do," I mutter wryly. Tony cocks an eyebrow at me, smirking, and I grin, proud to have gotten in at least a shot in this constant verbal war the man seems intent on waging. "Wait, they teach about Bucky and me in schools?"

Tony shakes his head slightly, as if he just can't believe that I could say that. "Cap, you were the first honest to god superhero in a world that, up to a few years ago, didn't have too many to brag about; you were the war hero to hand all other war heroes their collective ass in a sling; you were the first successful case of human genetic manipulation; and to top it all off, you went all Earhart and disappeared on us, leaving one great mystery and a lot of theories in your wake. So yeah, you bet your star spangled ass they teach about you in schools. And they round out the rosy tale with the everyman strapped to your side, James Barnes. At least, that's the way they tell it. Dear old dad had a different story to tell when it came to you boys, though. He was your best friend, and he went off to war without you. Even after you went from mild mannered to stars and stripes, you didn't join the big fight until J—_Bucky_ got himself captured by the bad guys. He became a part of your team after that, stuck to your side, the one part the history books did get right, until he…y'know, died." Tony at least has the grace to squirm just a little as he lamely finishes the story. But the discomfort lasts less than a second, and the Tony I know comes shining through again. "Right in front of you, if I remember correctly. Fell off a mountain."

"You just remember all that. Off the top of your head." Something about my tone makes me think that that should have been phrased as a question, but my voice is heavy and dead. This isn't the conversation I came here for, and it's not what I was prepared to hear.

Tony rolls his eyes, if a bit playfully. "Get over yourself, old man. I did a little brush up work when I heard through the SHIELD grapevine that a certain fossil was being dusted off and defrosted." Tony shifts in his seat, and the snark leaves his voice, and his eyes settle on me once more. As he speaks, Tony starts to resemble the child he must remember himself being, the boy who first heard the story he recounts. "But the stories Dad told about Bucky, they always sort of stuck with me. It always seemed like Dad thought less of him because he…well, because he wasn't you, didn't have your abilities, but to me, that just made him so much…greater. He was a soldier, a sniper if I remember right, and he did all this fantastic stuff, fought the supervillains, kept his country safe. He was out in the woods, saving the world and running on an even keel with the big man himself," and here Tony tosses me an offhanded gesture, "with nothing more than a standard military issue rifle and his wits."

"And that's a real hero to you," I interrupt, sensing the direction he's about to take. "A quick thinker, somebody who doesn't need anyone else, a man with…what was it? _Iron_ in his backbone?"

Tony shakes his head. "Before you even say it, the papers gave me that name. I tried to tell them, the suit's not even _made_ of iron…."

I interrupt again. "There's something you're forgetting, Mr. Stark." He quirks the eyebrow again, but this time it's an invitation. "Bucky was part of a team. We relied on each other. None of us ever had to worry about getting caught with nothing but a gun and his wits, because he'd have the rest of the team to fall back on. That's—I think that's what we're supposed to be, you and me. And the others. And when you really needed someone to step in, someone to fall back on, I watched you take the hit and drop like a stone."

Tony shakes his head, a sad smile playing across the lower end of his face, and his eyes finally shine with understanding. "That's what this is about, isn't it? Your first visit to the real world since we took out little brother's big invasion, and you're here to apologize for, what? Not saving my ass? Cap, this is going to be hard to hear, but you know I have to say it. We're not your old team. We're super, every one of us, and we can watch our own backs. It's nice when we don't have to, but you're not responsible for us. You can play den mother if you want, but don't go all guilt trip on account of little ol' me. I knew what I was doing."

And that's the last straw. I can't pretend I don't see it anymore. "Yeah, Tony, I know what you were doing, too. I called you out, called you selfish, so you went out to prove me wrong." I move toward him, angry and guilty, and I just want to hear him admit it.

"I don't have anything to prove to you," Tony snaps, leaning forward, but the intensity of his voice and the red in his face betray the lie.

"Then whatever happened to the way out, Tony? Always a way out, remember? Where was your way out when you flew a giant bomb through a hole into outer space? I almost lost you!" And I know I've taken it a step too far now, but the words are out there, hanging between us like a lead weight. I know what I could do, should do. I should correct myself and tell him that we, as a team, almost lost him. I should tell him that he's a leader now, that leaders lead, that he's more valuable alive than as a missile deterrent. I should tell him that the world needs heroes at any cost. But I don't, because none of that is as true, as right, as what I've already said.

Finally, after an eternity of heavy silence that probably lasts almost a whole minute, he smiles. He doesn't grin, or smirk, or even sneer. Tony smiles at me, and I know that something has changed. I'm suddenly very aware of the scant distance between our faces, both of us leaning forward to be heard, to be seen, to be understood. And now, here we sit, not even inches apart, when he gives me _that_ look, and I don't know how I to feel.

I know how I want to feel, and I know how I think should feel, but the two are wildly different, and I don't know which to give in to. The part of me that's still anchored to the past tells me these are the kinds of feelings I should stifle, should run from, but there's another part of me, the part that's tied to this moment, this world, this man, that could throw the 40s away in a second. For him. For now. For this moment.

Tony breathes deep, and I can feel the air across my face, and that all but settles things. When he speaks, his voice is deep, somehow dark, rough. "You can't get rid of me that easily." I can still taste the whiskey on his tongue as it slips past my lips.

* * *

One more chapter in us, I think, so do stay tuned. I've really had more fun with this than I thought possible, but it's more than taken on a life of its own.

As always, I would like to thank MirrorFlower and DarkWind, Wildfire2, BADAZZtoldya, Assassin of Oblivion, Evilchick2010, MikiMouze16, and my dearest Elske, for making me feel like I have somebody in my corner.


	5. Tomorrow's Beautiful Promise

A/N: Hey, so now I'm back with the end of this thing I started! Sorry this took so long to finish off, but it's been a wacky few weeks. I know most of you understand. I've been getting a lot of great feedback from this story, and I know a lot of you out there are following it. I've really loved putting this together, and I've loved more having you all read this. Thanks, guys, really.

That said, Avengers is completely the property of the Marvel people, and probably mostly Stan Lee. I didn't invent them, I'm not making any money, and it would be great if nobody sued.

* * *

I've called Tony a lot of things since I met him. I try to hold on to that thought as the scruff of his days old stubble scrapes across my chin, sending little sparks all down my spine. I've called him many things, both outside my head and in. The man is brash, fearless, oddly beautiful, selfish, arrogant, rash, brave, cocksure, immature, irritating, really one of the most frustrating men I think I've ever me it my life….

I'm sure I had a point, but something about the way Tony's fingers trace the line of my jaw steals it from me for a moment. The one thing it never occurred to me that I might one day call the man is graceful. Until now, anyway.

Tony seems almost boneless, his movement unnaturally fluid as he settles into place on top of me, one knee to either side of my hips, his mouth never leaving mine for a moment, but to suck in the odd breath and growl my name in a way that has me wanting more, every second just a little more.

I can feel the soft warmth coming from the glow in Tony's chest, or at least I imagine I can. I've never been too sure of the science behind the little light bulb that protects his heart, keeping the world and, if I remember right, shards of metal at bay. But it pulses all the same, throbbing in time with a different warmth I'm sure Tony can feel coming from me. I move my hands hesitantly down his sides, until my fingers lightly brush the soft fabric of his waistband.

My blood runs cold as Tony stops moving, and all I can think is that I've done something wrong. I wait a long, awful moment before I find the courage to open my eyes, his tongue a still, dead weight in my mouth. When I finally get the nerve to look up at him, though, Tony's eyes are full, not of the anger or revulsion I had feared (and, honestly, half-expected), but amusement. It takes a longer moment than I would admit for me to realize that Tony isn't even looking at me at all anymore. Tony is gazing behind me, apparently barely holding back a laugh I can feel spilling into my own mouth.

After a beat to consider, I shimmy out from under Tony just slightly, and in a way that makes us both lose focus for a moment. Tony is still moaning as I push up against the couch, draping my head over the back to find the inverted version of what the man above me seems to find so very distracting. And, my tongue free and my mouth clear, I have to laugh as well.

Bruce stands at the top of the stairs he had descended what seems like hours ago, redder than I thought a human being could get. He's so flustered, it looks like his head might pop. I'll have to remember to ask Tony if that's actually possible. My instant of guilt is lost in the sight of Bruce's mouth, opening and closing without finding the words. He looks a little like a big red balloon that someone's tried to let the gas out of, the release valve flapping in the escaping air.

The doctor finally manages "I…" in a higher voice than the man who houses the big green boogeyman should be capable of, raising a finger and wagging it in our direction. Then he turns, racing down the steps of the spiral staircase. I'm almost positive Tony, with his average man's hearing, doesn't hear his muttering about the money Clint owes him, but it is a considerable sum, and I'm almost more flattered than disturbed.

Before I even have a moment to consider mentioning it to Tony, though, I'm sliding back down the couch. Tony has one hand threaded around my back, and the other is pulling me down by front of my jeans, his fingers deftly undoing the button. I wait a long moment for the inevitable push, Tony Stark pushing always farther until he finds and, eventually, crosses some line.

I look up at him when I realize he's stopped, and for a moment, I can read his mind. 'Not too far,' his eyes say, an alien uncertainty written across his face, 'don't push too far.' I lean up, my chest meeting his, my lips brushing the bottom of his ear as I whisper, "I won't break."

Tony melts down into my lap for a breath-stealing, heart-pounding, vision-exploding moment, and the next thing I know, as my head clears, Tony has me by the wrists, and he's dragging me up, up, away from the couch and the warmth, and toward the stairs. And then we're going up still, up and up and up the stairs, tripping clumsily over one another as Tony walks backwards and I try not lose the connection I've finally found with him. And now I've tried too hard, my foot tangling in his legs, and we fall, laughing as become twisted up in one another.

I'd be happy to stay here, the corners of the stairs digging into my knees, listening to the thready sound of Tony's breathing, the thudding of his heart masked by the low, steady hum of his life line. But he starts to shift beneath me all too soon, stealing a swift kiss, broken before I even have the time to react, and he's pulling me up again. "We've got time," he tells me with an oddly knowing smile. "Come on." He's leading me now, by one hand, taking his time to watch where one step ends and the next begins.

It takes moments and years to get to the top of the stairs, passing two floors between. One seemed just to be one large room with thick padding, a whole story wide. I can only guess at what the room is used for, but something in my gut tells me it's a muscular green menace. The other seemed to be a hall of rooms, but it's only my guess that someone has been sleeping there. Honestly, I don't think I've ever seen a hallway with less style, and, in Tony's home, it stands out in stark contrast.

But the top of the stairs is our destination, and it takes my breath away. The house I grew up in as a kid could fit in this man's bedroom, as wide and elaborate as it is, and it must have cost at least ten times as much, but it's only a passing thought as he pulls me in again, slamming the door behind us to keep the light out. The kiss is everything, for the space between heartbeats, and I feel like I could fall into it if I let myself, but I pull back to look in his eyes, dully lit by the glowing spark between us. I don't know what I'm looking for, but what I see is a man looking back, trying to find something in me. And he grins.

"What do you want from me?" Tony asks, and it isn't a demanding question, or an impatient one, but a serious question. All I can do is smile as I twist my fingers into his hair and finally take the lead, covering his mouth with my own and exploring him with my free hand. For a moment so long, so deep that I can't tell if it's seconds or hours, that is answer enough. 'I want _this_,' it tells him, 'so quit talking and give it to me.'

I've slammed him against so many walls that, in the dark, I have no idea where we are anymore in this room the size of a baseball field. The glow of Tony's life bulb shows me the bed, and it's all I can think of as I pull him after me. We collide with the frame, all hands and teeth and friction. My shirt is gone, I realize, as my back slams against the cool wood of the frame, and I tear the buttons from Tony's shirt, just to make things even I tell myself with a grin.

In an instant I realize that it's all too much, all too now, and I want to take it apart, savor it one sense at a time, but Tony's taste is in my mouth, and his hands are on my jeans, freeing me from the pressure of my zipper and helping me step out of the restrictive denim, and exactly who could say no to that? I kiss him again, long and slow and deep, as I feel the fabric pooling around my feet.

I can't get drunk now, couldn't even if I wanted to, but before, when I was young, drinking gave me the lightheadedness and the fluttering in my stomach that Tony's presence gives me now, and I realize that this is the most human I've felt since I became…this, whatever I am now. He's like a rope, holding me here, keeping me from floating away.

I can't help the laugh that bubbles up from my chest. To think that this man, this self-obsessed, arrogant man, this man I would have happily decked only days ago, has become the firmest connection to this world, this life, to think that he has become my tether is too much, and I have to lean back, clutching at the bedpost to keep myself upright. It's then that I remember his question.

"Forever," I whisper into the darkness, and I can feel Tony's gaze and the calculating weight behind it settle firmly on me. It's not a promise I expect him to make, less one I think he can keep, but a challenge. 'I've come this far,' Forever said. 'Let's see what you can do.'

For a moment, I wonder if Tony will understand, or really if anyone even can, but then he speaks, and he's all bravado and a big stupid grin, the flash of teeth reflected by the soft light of his chest, made all the brighter in the darkness. "You're on," Tony says, grabbing me around the waist and lifting me onto what had best be a very sturdy bed. I have a fleeting moment to hope, for Bruce's sake, that these walls are thick and sound proof, before I'm lost to the moment, lost to the man, lost to the promise. Forever.

* * *

And that, as they say, is the end of that. Thanks go out to everyone who stuck it out with me, and I hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I did.

And as always, I would like to thank MirrorFlower and DarkWind, Wildfire2, BADAZZtoldya, Assassin of Oblivion, Evilchick2010, MikiMouze16, Sexy Sam Girl forever 11, DarkBombayAngel, and, as ever, my dearest Elske. You guys made this worth the effort, and there aren't enough words for me to thank you for it.


End file.
